Thursday, January 15, 2015

Enigmatic Corot that a chicken thickens if a cut
thrills. I strain a spoon to hit the moon. The singing sidewalk is my
blossoming and bile. I smell incense below the float and start the car. I will
push this idea until it crackles below the bean bang.

The performance glows and we feel its heavy steam.
We assembled the stomach during the fall and luxuriated in winter feeling it
work itself into rhetoric. I bald into honesty like paint. The dusty soliciting
of spring became my cause and controversy. I stood there in the orchard
including sense in my art and absorption.

We can maneuver the fence if the court so deems it
necessary for our escape into the wilderness. Jerk a swim through the pool. If
you lose yourself during the elevation you will find resurrection in the consonants
strewn throughout the sentence. The proposal attends your punches. One must
endure one’s secretions as they become implicit in perception.

Mark this, my friend, the bowl will quicken as it
fills with ice. Scribbles toss themselves into circulation. I feel the pulse of
an indentation brush a babble with an admonition. Plump my draw to a collar
stud. I can only answer the wonder of myriad structures since I branch into
many coconuts and burn the deformation with laughing up there.

We play the trapeze and tap the wall with autonomy. We
pull our excuses out of a perception of ratio and make proverbs out of silk.
Our assembled logic accommodates gravity, crustaceans it to vermilion, and we
go ahead and pull the rest, fastening our spoons as we go. There is cement for
exploration and glass for decipherment. We clothe our echoes beneath knowledge
and see what green Apollinaire wore when he flowed toward the mysteries of
secretion.

It’s in the streams that our reflections pin
themselves to the water disturbing the graces of the heart. We linger to collect
ourselves and travel into the beyond weeping over the compliments of apples.
Conceit is a form of coherence. It is the mind we hope to press against when we
write something. The tea is cluttered with subtleties, too many to describe as
sidewalks or cloth, which have their own distinctions, and inflate with the
nutmeg of desire.

We fill our anthologies with aesthetic persuasions
that never quite gel into paradise. Confusion explains the larynx. We flail
what we can with our theories and tumble vowels on our lips. I can’t quit
altitude. There is the spring to the blade of my knife and age is a palette
whose colors can never adjust to the brass of trouble. Cream by violin, and use
binoculars for the rest.

My feelings fight for the rub of the wave. I can do
nothing without teeming. I feed my insistence the clang of the sleeve and wash
the greenery with meditation. The tongue is a strange machine, though some might
call it a muscle. I call it a convocation of cells and let it shape the song as
it will.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

“All philosophy,” observed Paul Valéry, “is born
knowingly from illusions which are illusions of language.” Words are signs for
things and not the things themselves. Words are illusions. Their relation with
things is uncertain, inconstant, and indeterminate. But here is a paradox:
since words are untethered to the concrete world, their representation of
experience is infinite, and because it is infinite, it is real. There is no
limit to the variety of phenomena and sensations already in existence or in
which there is a probability or possibility of bringing them into existence.
The words themselves might serve as their own experience. This is a situation
in which illusion assumes the audible ineffability of inconceivable harmonies. The
patterns that make Mozart’s Eine kleine
Nachtmusik a tour de force of transcendent beauty, that give it its enery and clarity,
its buoyancy and depth of emotion, are stunningly real. But in the truer sense
of the real, the reality of stone and water, the reality of bone and
refrigerator, the music belongs to the higher abstractions of time and wave.

When
one is conscious of, or knows, an object, it is an error to say that the object
in itself and our knowledge of the object are two distinct facts.
Hyper-objects, such as government, are particularly interesting: government has
no reality, there is nothing tangible about government, government is a
concept; and yet government is quite real. We pay taxes to it, elect officials
to it, expect it to provide us with streets and libraries. Government is a
product of language. Language creates laws, breaks laws, tells stories of
outlaws. Language is the ultimate outlaw.

Taken in this
sense, unicorns, dragons, and brigadier generals all lay equal claim to being,
and having, a reality. What gives them that reality is the way in which we
experience them. Imagine them. A single word, such as the pronoun “I,” can
serve as the nucleus for a range of experience including peacocks, obsequies
and clover. Tapioca, doors, and pumpkins. In the realm of illusion, I is an
other: its reality is called into being by the simple act of writing. Of
talking. There is an otherness to it because as soon as an identity is proposed
as a symbolic entity, its reality changes. It enters into an arena of magic, of
profound sorcery. Whenever someone says “I,” we-anotherpronoun with the weight of a helium balloon-know
that the stream of verbiage issuing from that personhood of “I” is an eye
into the storm of their being. We also know
that the word “I” and the person claiming that “I” as a locus of intimate
experience, has just entered into the vast ocean that is language, has diffused
into its boundless horizon.

In other words,
“I,” “We,” “They,” and “You” are all propositions, all shades and inclinations
of personhood in relation to oneself or other people. But in what sense do any
of them have reality? The word “you” cannot be eaten, tasted, squeezed,
pressed, ironed, nailed, packed or crushed. But it can be spoken. It can be
written.

You are reading an
essay when along comes a dragon and invites you to go on a journey to a realm
of illusion. Are you real? Or not real? Is the dragon real, or not real? The
dragon is, in fact, a yearning fleshed out in wing and claw. It has a thyroid,
lungs, and mild case of bursitis.

My eyes, ears, skin
and hair are all real. But when I convert them into words they blaze into
deputation. Their dilations are sleeves of sensual being. I must speak in
metaphor because words are sites of resistance, combustions of internal fire.

“Language is a
reality,” Valéry further observed, “a usage of indeterminate coefficients.” A
coefficient is a multiplicative factor in any term of a polynomial, a series or
any expression. As soon as two or more words are brought into combination they
multiply their associative power. Syntax is fundamentally a probability. A
spoon is a prelude of refractory light. Each sentence is as structural as a
lobster and sculptural as a rib. Call it a tapestry. Call it a comprehension. A
consolidation. If it is a living sense it is because the mind has given it
life.

The poet works at
the frontier of nonsense. There is no incompatibility of words that some poet
can bridge. The power to create new contextual significations is limitless.
What initially appears to be nonsense can begin to make sense as soon as the
mind discovers new relations among things. This is a rare ability, but one
which can be developed. There will come a time when it will be impossible to
exhaust the connotative resource of words. The greater the semantic distance
among a group of words, the brighter the illumination.

If language had not
been invented, what sound would you make to indicate the sun? How would you
describe the sun? Nothing in life is predictable, except death and taxes.
Everything else is up for grabs. Words inspire me to be a better addict. I
agree with Baudelaire: one should always be drunk. Drunk on words, drunk on
wine, drunk on virtue, drunk on poetry. However you choose.

About Me

John Olson is the author of Backscatter: New And Selected Poems, from Black Widow Press, Souls Of Wind, a novel about the notorious French poet Arthur Rimbaud in the American West, from Quale Press, and The Nothing That Is, an autobiographical novel from Ravenna Press. Larynx Galaxy, a collection of essays and prose poetry, appeared in June, 2012, from Black Widow Press. The Seeing Machine , a novel about French painter Georges Braque, appeared from Quale Press in fall 2012.